Spooks and Shotguns
by DragonChild85
Summary: Dictionary Roulette. A collection of 500-ish word drabbles, updated weekly. Generally, no spoilers, ages range from Wee to Adult. ::Updated:: Apology, Cold, Heart and Hesitate. All 4 have Season 6 spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

Okay, fine! I have totally been bitten by the E/O Challenge bug. .

Now, as my summary says, I was taught that a drabble is 500 words. However, the E/O Challenge appears to be 100 words. So I'm doing both. The stories filed under "Spooks and Shotguns, Expanded" will be the drabbles of 500-word length. To see the shortened version of each challenge, see my other collection: "Spooks and Shotguns". They will be the same 'scene', just pared down to the 100 word limit. I think I'm done now. ^_^

* * *

Word: Ridiculous.

Word Count: 500 on the dot.

Spoilers: None.

Timeframe: Pre-Series.

* * *

The place was packed, bodies crushed together in stifling heat, the cheers and whistles piercing in the small space. Dean fit himself along the back wall, just against the door, eyes dark and hooded as he watched the proceedings.

Spotting Sam was easy, his tall and lanky form obvious in the garish colored robe, and he smirked as hazel eyes met brown across the gym, warmth spreading through his chest as Sam smiled softly, ducking his head. Dean saw John frown at Sam, glancing over his shoulder in curiosity, only to glower at the elder brother.

If their dad thought he was going to miss this, just because of a hunt gone rather wrong last night, he was nine kinds of crazy. To even imply that Dean wouldn't be there was ridiculous. This was the moment Sam had been gunning for the last thirteen years; nothing would keep him out of it. He even knew what each of the colored corded tassels hanging off his brother's neck meant, what the medallion that sparkled under the gym's lights represented.

"Samuel Winchester." Dean swallowed hard, blinking furiously as Sam's form wavered and blurred as he strode across the stage, accepting his diploma with charisma. He had to brush away the wetness that tickled his cheeks, proud of his little brother. His own graduation was nothing special, he had just been glad to get out of there, be able to fully dedicate his time to the family business, but he knew just how badly Sammy wanted out of there.

Even though the future held a dark and bitter path, leading the family apart, he was still so proud of the pain in the ass. Their dad was too...even though they lived on the go, and the truck wasn't that big, there was a shoebox that held all of Sam's grade cards, the class photos, the assignments that had made Sammy burst through the door, proud and excited.

Dean knew those cords, that tassel, and the lily that Sam had shyly accepted at the end of the stage would all make their way into the box. Even as angry as Dad had been about Stanford, even though both the older Winchesters were talking themselves blue in the face trying to dissuade Sam, there was a copy of that damned acceptance letter in the box too.

He glanced at the ceiling, idly noting the tennis ball lodged in the rafters, and tried to rein in his emotions. A heavy snuffle, and he tried hard not to think about how proud their Mom would have been to see this, to see her baby graduating in the top 5 of his class.

Dean turned and limped back to the Impala, who growled comfortingly as he edged her out of the tangle of cars, heading back to the motel. He'd make his way into the bed, and be totally nonchalant when Sam got back, tie already discarded and shirt unbuttoned as he tried to downplay the whole thing.


	2. Chapter 2: Furtive

Okay, so it has come to my attention that the E/O Challenge is for 100 words only, dead on. Can't do that. Sorry. So I'm modifying this, to suit myself. My own self-imposed rules are simple:

-About 500 words. No need to be dead exact...stop when the story feels good. This is more to kick my butt into steady writing than anything else.

-Update weekly. Most likely on Tuesday, but it can change if needed to another day of the week. That's it. Pretty simple. Hope you all continue to enjoy!

* * *

Challenge word: Furtive

Meaning: Stealth, secretive, to escape notice

Word Count: 500 dead on. Whoot!

Time Frame: WAY pre-series, like….we're talking Wee-chesters here.

Warnings/Spoilers: None that I can think of! Maybe insane sugary-sweetness? *gryns gamely*

* * *

It was so hard to wait, to lay quietly and not make any noise, when what you wanted was just a few steps away. Dean squirmed a bit, sighing into the darkness as the clock kept counting away. Just a little longer….

He heard the creak of the top step, and froze, stiller than one would think a toddler capable of. Feet approached, stopped. The creak of the door was quiet, but when that was a sound he was tuned into, it was as loud as a train. Six breaths, and the door creaked shut again, the steps coming closer.

Dean watched the light from the bottom of the door, and snapped his eyes shut as he saw the shadows from underneath. The door creaked open, and he struggled to lay limp, deep breaths steady. Steps closer, and he felt his Dad's hand brush through his hair, a soft kiss to his forehead. He made a small noise, stretched…and fell back into 'sleep'. He tried not to smile as John shut the bedroom door, waited a moment as his eyes adjusted in the darkness again.

He scrambled out of his bed, dashing to the door to press against it. No noise…he cracked the door, peering out. The door to his parent's room was shut, the light dim but still on. He shuffled from foot to foot, bouncing impatiently.

Finally! The light flicked off, and he furtively snuck down the hall, pressed against wall, listening with keen ears to the soft murmurs of his Mom and Dad. The sheets rustled, and quiet reigned supreme again in the house. He flicked his gaze to his goal, just a yard away. Bare feet padded quietly on the hardwood, and he was supremely proud when the door didn't squeak for –him-, not when he pushed it open just enough to slip inside.

In the crib, Sammy stared at him with big eyes, a small fist in his mouth as he watched. "Hi Sammy." Dean snuck closer, giggling as Sam waved a slobbery fist at him and made random nonsense noises. "Shhh. Mom will hear you on that." He pointed to the baby-listening device, red light glaring warningly at the two. It just took the work of a moment to scramble up the slats and over, landing lightly on the firm mattress. Sam squealed gleefully, and Dean froze, eyes locked on the door and breath held. After six breaths and no noises indicating his parents were returning, he settled down, sitting in a crib much smaller than he remembered from his own time in it. Sam sighed contently; closing his dark eyes as Dean scooted closer, rubbing his hand against the warm sleeper. "Night Sammy. Angels are watching over you too." He pressed a kiss to his brother's downy hair before curling up against him, waiting.

He waited until the warmth sparkled through the room, the sense of peace and protection, and he let go of awareness. That was the angels watching them, he knew.


	3. Chapter 3: Lightning 1 of 2

_I am SOO Sorry this is late! *begs and grovels for forgiveness* Chapter 2 of Puppy Cargo has more info, but for the most part, Real Life got me by the throat. __However, this translates into not 1, not 2, but THREE whole new stories for you! *hopes this is suffient offerings to the review-gods*_

* * *

Challenge word: Lightning  
(This one became a two-fer...Sorry!)

Meaning: A flicker of light, commonly used in conjunction with the changes of atmospheric pressures and the discharge thereof.

Word Count: 507 on this one.

Time Frame: WAY pre-series, like….we're talking Wee-chesters here.

Warnings/Spoilers: None that I can think of! Maybe insane sugary-sweetness?

* * *

John knew he was flirting with danger, but the need to let kids be kids was too much to argue against. The light was slowly dying, the sun sinking behind the distant mountains, painting the skies a bloody red that bled into the darkening purples of night. There was still plenty of light to see the two kids romping in the park, squeals and giggles floating on the humid summer night air.

Dean leaned down, hefting his younger brother up to better catch the reasons that they were still out here, rather than in the apartment, like they should be. John tightened his grip on the rifle, watched with keen eyes as the shadows shifted as the small fireflies lit and danced, disappeared to reappear further down. He'd give them a little bit more time.

By the way that Dean kept Sammy close, John had a feeling that he was a little too aware of the dangers, but it had been years since his eldest had laughed in the starlight, chasing lightning bugs and dancing like a fey child. And his youngest had never done so. He had abruptly realized it on their last drive, as Sam had pressed his little face against the glass, the soft gasp of wonder bringing father and brother's attention to the field they were passing, where the little sparkles of light looked almost magical, in a good way.

He didn't really like the idea of them being out so late, but it was worth it as Sammy came running towards him, hands cupped together carefully, a light shimmering briefly between fingers. "Daddy!"

"Whatcha got there sport?"

"It's a fire bug Daddy!" Sam thrust his fist under his Dad's gaze, and John leaned back a little, the fist reappearing as his eyes focused with the distance.

Dean smirked, watching his own climb up his arm. "Lightning bug Sammy. Not a fire bug." The correction was absent, warm rather than scoffing, and John smiled.

Sam's hands opened enough for his eye to peer in, a squeak of glee escaping as the bug lit up for him again. "It tickles."

"Yup. Did you know, if you whisper a wish to them, they'll fly up to the stars? They'll carry your wish all the way to heaven." Dean sent a sharp glance to his father, but John just smiled, heart heavy as Sam's eyes grew huge.

"Really?" He checked in on his bug again with reverence, and cupped his hands up against his mouth, whispering the desires of a small child.

"Now you let him go." Dean's own bug had reached his shoulder, and paused, wings spread, before lighting again and taking off into the warm night air. "See?"

Sam furrowed his brow, and sighed. "Okay. Bye Mister Bug." He uncupped his hands, holding them to the skies like an offering, and giggled again as the bug crawled to the tip of his chubby fingers, pausing there as it flickered. "It's okay, go home!" The bug obliged, twinkling as it flew away into the night.


	4. Chapter 4: Lightning 2 of 2

Challenge word: Lightning (This is the second of 2!)

Meaning: A flicker of light, commonly used in conjunction with the changes of atmospheric pressures and the discharge thereof.

Word Count: 500 dead on. Whoot! Gotta love it when that happens without trying.

Time Frame: Season 2, after the events of "Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things"

Warnings/Spoilers: None that I can find.

* * *

The sharp rapport of thunder was the first sound Dean heard when he stepped out of the shower, and he froze, ears differentiating the sound from gunfire as easily as breathing. After a second, the room lit up again, the bark of thunder on the heels of the light.

That was the only sounds he heard, though. "Damnit Sam." The words weren't harsh, weren't heated. Just the resigned frustration of twenty-some years of admonitions not listened to. He pushed open the bathroom door, not surprised in the least at the empty room. He didn't rush through getting dressed, pulling his clothes on without any impatience, the routine simple and reassuring in its normality. He knew where to find his brother. It wasn't uncommon.

The first time, his Dad had almost roared the motel to its foundations, the name turning into a curse almost as they checked everywhere.

The second time, they didn't even bother hollering for him.

During the time Sam exiled himself to Palo Alto, Dean had noticed he didn't...instead, he could always count on a hand pressed against the window, hazel eyes watching dark skies.

First storm after the fire though; Dean had rolled over during the night, startled by the empty rumpled sheets on the far bed, the distinct lack of a younger brother. He had flung open the door, and it was like every other time.

The door didn't creak, which surprised him, considering the creepy theme, and sure enough, there was the pain in the ass he loved. Sprawled out on the hood of the Impala, hands behind a drenched head, boots dangling off in front of headlights as the lightning lit up features.

He didn't say a word, just crossed his arms across his chest and leaned against the door jamb. He didn't understand why Sam did it, but it was almost impossible to keep him inside, to stop him from lying in the rain while it raged and stormed. Even when wounded, if possible, he was out in the deluge, sprawled on the black-cherry paint job, eyes watching the lightning flash across the dark bellies of the clouds. However, speaking of...

"You're gonna ruin your cast man." He was a bit disappointed when Sam didn't flinch, didn't seem surprised in the least, but he'd have been furious if he caught Sam off guard out in this. The younger brother just raised his right arm, the white cast coated in saran wrap, and where the hell did he find that? Sam resettled, tucking the arm behind his head, and the lightning lit again, illuminating the forlorn and wistful expression. "You okay?"

Again, not a word, just a thumbs up, and Dean ducked back inside, content to let his sibling brood in his solitude. Dean did his own heavy thinking, usually to the tune of the greatest hits of mullet rock, or the taste of a cheap whisky, but that wasn't Sam's choices. And an hour later, Sam came back in, dripping wet but content.


	5. Chapter 5: Squelch

Challenge word: Squelch

Meaning: To make a splashing or squishing sound, as with wet shoes, water or mud.

Word Count: 499

Time Frame: Set in the Pilot episode

Warnings/Spoilers: None that I can think of. Not even really for the pilot.

Notes: Sorry this may be a little jarring..I started to get into it, and realized I only had 25 words left. *sighs* So I had to shorten it. This word popped up on my list, and I couldn't help but instantly think of Dean going over the bridge in the pilot.

* * *

Sam had held his breath as drove the Impala to John Welch's house, trying desperately not to breathe the stench that lingered in the black heat-box. It had been on Dean's mind as he had made their way into their Dad's motel room, boots still squelching as they tread carefully over the salt lines, the lingering odor of Dean's impromptu bath in the river mingling unpleasantly with the stench of decaying food in the room.

Man, she needed cleaned. Or a boat load of air freshener. No, it needed cleaned. The grit under the towel he had thrown across the seat attested to that much.

Just like Dean to dirty up the car and leave the little brother to clean it. He smirked as he shook his head, leaning his head out the window as he gasped in fresh air.

* * *

After the 'interview' with one Mr. Joseph Welch, Sam eyed his watch, frowning. Dean still hadn't called, indicating he was out yet. A long sigh, and he wrinkled his nose. Damn, the car still didn't smell any better. He shook his head, pointing her in the direction he had seen a car wash station. He knew to give Dean a few more hours before intervening. And the stench rolling through the car was becoming more and more of an imperative need. It wasn't as if he hadn't washed the car before; Dean had made sure that the black beauty glistened like a new car, and he knew that if it hadn't been for the police, Dean would have stopped and washed her up before getting them lunch. It was just how his older brother ran the show.

The car wash was empty and devoid of anyone else, and he pulled her through backwards, so that he could wash the exterior first before pulling forward to vacuum out the interior. And give the vinyl a scrubbing it so desperately needed. The muck that had smelled like a toilet last night had gotten way worse through the heat of the day.

He couldn't help but relax a bit as he wet down the glossy black car, the ritual of cleaning the Impala soothing and vaguely routine. There was something calming about soaping up the car, using the rags from the trunk to gently scrub away the filth and grime from the roads. '_Gentle pressure Sam, don't want to scratch up the paint with the grit',_ Dean's voice murmured quietly, a memory of a younger Dean showing a younger Sam how to use big circles a warm remembrance. Hosing the old girl back down, he fired up the engine enough to pull up and start the arduous process of cleaning the interior. The stench was slowly fading, giving way to the scent of soap and general cleanliness, and after, he stood, cracking his back as he stretched deeply. Done.

He may be leaving to go back to Stanford in the morning, but at least he could help out a little here now.


	6. Chapter 6: Square

Challenge word: Square

Meaning: A rectangle with 4 equal sides. Also, the definition I am using here: a knot made of two reverse half-knots and typically used to join the ends of two cords

Word Count: 500. *happy dance*

Time Frame: Any. Really.

Warnings/Spoilers: None that I can find. Potty Mouth Dean again?

* * *

"Damnit." Dean frowned at the red dripping off his fingers, falling to the floor of the Impala. "We got any other napkins or something in here?"

Sam glared over at him as he tried to steer despite the torrential downpour, and rummaged under the seat. "Quit making fists, dude. You're only making the blood flow faster." His fingers closed on terrycloth, and he pulled it out, frowning at the towel that had oil, antifreeze, and god knows what other fluids on it.

"That'll work."

"Dean. It's filthy." Sam made to stash it back under, but Dean lunged across the seat, snatching it with the practice of twenty-some years, and wrapped his hand in it.

"It's not like I'm wrapping it around the actual injury, dumbass. I'm just keeping the blood off the car. Besides, gotten oil into cuts before. Doesn't hurt it any."

Sam decided that silence was the better option, sighing as he peered through the flood of rain. He was thankful he had made it out of the poltergeist without any injuries, but Dean had instinctively thrown his arm up as the hatchet had come whizzing through the air at him. The thing had no aim, thankfully, but it had clipped Dean's arm pretty deep. His own button-up was wrapped tightly around it, the shirt slowly turning red, and Sam –really—didn't like the way Dean's freckles were obviously noticeable now, or the way his hand shook where it rested on the edge of the window frame.

"I'm fine." Dean's eyes were dark and knowing.

"I know. Still don't like you bleeding all over the car. Couldn't have ducked, could you?"

Dean chuckled wryly. "I did. Didn't hear it in time. Coulda been worse."

Sam inclined his head in agreement, images of various past wounds flashing through his mind. He'd gotten a good look at the gash as he had wrapped it…it wasn't bad. A few stitches, some good rest, and Dean would be his annoying self in no time.

* * *

"Are you going to sit still, or am I going to have to tie your arm down?" Sam growled, yanking Dean's wrist back to him to finish the square knot he was tying in the nylon thread.

"Not my fault." The words were a little slurred, quiet in the darkness, and Sam felt a flash of guilt. Of course Dean didn't mean to, but it was still frustrating to continually pull the arm back towards him.

"I know. Only a few more, and you're good." Sixteen stitches marched their way around Dean's arm by the time he was done, the clear fishing line invisible against the gold of Dean's skin. A smoothing of antibiotic ointment, a quick wrap with gauze to keep it from drying out or snagging on sheets, a squeeze of a tense shoulder, and Dean was done, patched up for another night. It never easier, stitching his brother, but there was the flash of warmth that Dean would rather him do it than a professional.


	7. Chapter 7: Specter

Challenge word: Specter. I kid you not. (Also, has anyone else noticed a lot of S words?)

Meaning: a visible incorporeal spirit, esp. one of a terrifying nature; ghost; phantom; apparition. **2. **some object or source of terror or dread:

Word Count: 507. Close.

Time Frame: Wee-chesters. Again. Because I had to.

Warnings/Spoilers: None that I can find. ^_^

* * *

The snarl of the Impala died off as John killed the engine, leaning back in the seat to savor the quiet for a few more minutes. A simple hunt without a hitch, but it was still a small break from his boys.

Oh, he loved his sons, more than even Mary had probably realized. His mission was to avenge Mary's death…for the boys. But his life was his boys. But still, being in such close quarters at all times was a bit…stressful. Especially when one of them caught the flu, thanks to the frequent moving. He had no doubts that their immune systems would be stellar in a few years, but until then.

A small shadow passed by the window, holding what looked suspiciously like a firearm. He sighed and gathered up his stuff, crossing quickly to the door to pound on it three times. A yell, a thud, and a low growl answered, followed briefly by a shout to "hold on!" He rested his forehead against the door, praying once more for the patience needed to see these two to adulthood. For the love of god, he needed patience sometimes.

Small running feet approached the door, and he heard Dean's voice, muffled through the wood, demand to know the password. John smothered a chuckle, and gave it, nodding approvingly as Dean unlocked the main bolt but waited until he had confirmed through the small space allotted by the security chain. "Hey Dad. NO!" John jumped as the door slammed in his face, followed by another yell and thud, and a few moments of quiet. The door opened again, and he stood warily, waiting before stepping through.

Just to have a fistful of salt thrown at him. "Back foul specter!" He shook his head, brushing most of the salt off, and eyed his youngest cautiously. Sammy had a water gun pointed at him, glassy hazel eyes and hectic spots of color on his cheeks attesting to the fever still raging. "I warn you!"

"Sorry Dad. He's gotten a bit worked up…" Dean tried to explain, shaking dripping hair out of his eyes. He huffed and took a step towards the child, only to be blasted with water. "Yeah…his aim's getting better actually. Good idea with the holy water gun…" Dean's voice was laced with sarcasm. His oldest growled low at Sammy, whose eyes grew huge as he dashed frantically for the pillow laying on the floor, jumping onto it with both feet and plopping down to sit, all of his lanky limbs on the cotton. "Now stay there!"

Sam stuck his tongue out, waiting until Dean's back was turned to stealthily sneak towards the kitchen, grabbing another fistful of salt from the box.

"He been like this all night?"

"Yes sir." Dean froze and slowly closed his eyes at the feeling of salt pelting his back, and turned, only to be blasted again by holy water. He was right though…Sam's aim WAS improving.

John wondered if he could possibly find another hunt in the next few minutes.


	8. Chapter 8: Trace

_*hangs her head* To everyone awaiting more Puppy Cargo...it may be a bit. In addition, I apologize deeply for the late update here, and the total lack of any other updates. Massive migraine the previous week made computer work torture, and while I have mountains of ideas, my muse is fighting me. What I've been producing isn't fit for the light of day. These two updates are still well-below what I like, but they're better than the previous drafts. _

_Please bear with me, and I'll have some more updating soon. *shuffles off in shame*

* * *

  
_

Challenge word: Trace (See? Told you no more S words for a little while at least.)

Meaning: 1: A visible mark, such as a footprint, made or left by the passage of a person, animal, or thing. 2. To follow the course or trail of. (Really, either of these definitions work here! ^_^)

Word Count: 510. *sighs* They're starting to get longer. *grymbles*

Time Frame: Just about anywhere after the pilot…my mind sees it Season 1 or 2, like most of my work.

Warnings/Spoilers: Other than shirtless-Dean, none that I can find. ^_^

* * *

Dean jerked away, breath hissing sharply between clenched teeth as he flinched. It took a minute, and he slowly convinced tight muscles to relax again, slumping with a grumble back onto the floral bedspread.

"Sorry. Shoulda warned you."

"You think? Jeez…" The argument died off as he sighed in relief, the numbing properties of the blue goo kicking in now that the shock of the cold had dissipated. He felt Sam's hand rest on his hip for a moment as warning before smoothing the gel further, coating his back in a thick layer. The pillow thankfully muffled the noise of appreciation that escaped him, and he couldn't even work up enough energy to flinch again as Sam dispensed more aloe, this time coating his shoulders and arms as best he could.

"Hey, I'm not the one who decided to go wash the Impala in this weather. I'd think even you knew better." Sam's voice lacked the harshness his words would normally carry; the sun had suitably punished his foolish brother, and even Dean had to admit his actions had been rather…featherbrained.

"She was dusty." The words were slurring a bit, muffled into the polyester, and Sam shook his head, wincing at the ruby tone of his sibling's skin.

"Yeah, but you paid for it." Sam watched idly as the gel soaked almost instantly into the flesh, and shook his head as he squeezed out more, slathering it again over the heated skin. "Man, you're gonna be lucky if this doesn't blister." His thumb brushed against a long, wide streak of white, and he frowned, tracing it gently with a fingertip.

"Ghost."

"Hmm?" Sam leaned a bit closer, and Dean turned his face out of the pillow, blinking blearily at his younger brother.

"Ghost. Tossed me, caught it on the edge of the fireplace. Tore a strip outta me." Sam skimmed over another one, and Dean shifted. "Black dog."

It was another price they paid in their line of work, paid in blood and skin and pain. Sam shook his head absently…some families put together photo albums, others scrapbooked. The Winchesters collected their memories as a road map of white lines, marks and stitches, in broken bones and aching joints. Sam knew he had his own collection, one that both fascinated and fretted Jessica as she ran fingers over the old injuries, eyes dark and lip bitten as she struggled to not ask.

Dean shrugged his shoulders, wincing slightly from the tug of burned skin and congealed aloe, and rolled them, trying to ease the sensation. "We good?"

"Yeah, we're good. You want to get your face and arms then?" Dean nodded, pushing himself upright before lingering there a moment, head hanging low. "You okay?"

"Yup. Just peachy. Man, graveyard work does not do well with sunlight." He sorted himself out, shifting to slide his legs over the edge of the bed, and the light caught an odd collection of four scars along his shoulder. Sam traced them in askance, and Dean smirked, snagging the aloe from his brother. "Heather McCoy…"


	9. Chapter 9: Impair

Challenge word: Impair (I'll have you all know, I passed up 'Short' for this one! *scowls* I am SO saving that one for later! Too much fodder there! *wicked cackle*)

Meaning: To cause to diminish, as in strength or value.

Word Count: 497. Does that help even out my averages?

Time Frame: Set between Seasons 3 and 4.

Warnings/Spoilers: Darker than normal…no laughs here. Some spoilers, if you haven't seen any of Season 4. Or, you know, the pilot. Or the last episode of Season 3. I think that's it though.

* * *

He really should have listened to his gut, the vague warning to not finish that bottle of whiskey that had been calling his name. The liquor always had weakened him, impaired his self-discipline and resistance, led him to regrets later.

His brother could hold the spirits better than he could…not that he was a lightweight; it was just a simple statement of fact. He'd drunk himself under the table enough times in competition to know. For some reason, the liquor had just never….been the best of friends with him. Add stress to the mix, and yeah…not a good thing.

He traced the cold engraving in front of him, calloused finger running across the deep grooves in the granite lovingly. It was a bit hard to believe it had been four years already... longer, actually, now that it was well into December. He knew that the cold should be biting a bit, but considering his body was still miles away, buried under a mass of blankets, Dean snoring quietly nearby, he couldn't really feel it. It was the sheer concentration on the headstone that let him feel the chilled stone, the sharp edges of her name.

He'd discovered the trick shortly after his first taste of Ruby's blood, the first night he'd gotten thoroughly tanked, not even remembering passing out in the motel. It had been a shock to find himself halfway across the country, in a cemetery he hadn't visited in ages; a strong enough shock to throw himself back into his soused body.

Hours of hunting later, he stumbled across the term. Astral Projection. Out of body experience, but that made him think too much of Dean dying in a white room, hunting down a reaper while fighting to keep breathing, keep his heart beating.

He never asked Ruby about it; didn't want the memory of Jess to be anywhere near the demon. He had no qualms screwing the demon, but thinking of the two in the same breath was too much like smearing Jess' memory.

He could almost see her, the slight tilt of her head sending blond curls cascading over her shoulder, eyes soft as she gave that little half-smile he loved. The image taunted him some nights, hovering just outside of his reach. If he could just sleep, he could escape for a bit, run away again to a simpler, easier time, before Hell and the echoing screams of his brother, the savage snarls of the Hellhounds. The same fire for justice, for revenge, the crushing need to fix what had gone wrong pushed him, like it had before. This time, it was for his brother; not that long ago, it had been for the two blonds in his life, Jess and Mom.

He pressed a kiss to his fingers, transferring the touch to the covered image of his girlfriend, letting a finger trace that smile again, to burn it into his flesh to help carry him through, until he could return again.


	10. Chapter 10: Rustle

Challenge word: Rustle

Meaning: A soft, muffled crackling sound like that made by the movement of dry leaves or paper:

Word Count: 498 (Barely squeaked by there!)

Time Frame: Absolutely anywhere.

Warnings/Spoilers: A few naughty words, thanks to Dean. Nothing I haven't heard a 5 year old say though.

* * *

He could hear Dean's boots pounding through the woods, just yards away from his current trail, parallel to him as they tore through the dusky forest. The imp was bounding merrily just in front of them, visible through the foliage as it played peek-a-boo in the dying light.

"Damnit. Last freaking imp we hunt Sammy." The words were harsh in the quiet, the breath panting through the words. The imp cackled gleefully, somersaulting through the detritus without a care for the two humans wanting its blood.

Sam opened his mouth to answer, just as the imp waved, and split in two, one tearing off in each direction. "Shit, it duplicated!"

"Can it even do that?" Dean's voice was fading a bit, and he knew they were separating. "Be careful!" The words drifted through the trees, and Sam shook his head, tightening his grip on the pistol, praying the copper bullets worked as well as Bobby had said. Sam snorted wryly, ducking the large maple branch that hung over his path.

"Can't catch, can't kill!" The squeaky voice was grating his last nerve, and when the little freak stopped for a moment, starting to split again, Sam didn't hesitate to raise, aim and squeeze off a round, all in one beautiful movement. The imp twitched, muttering incoherently as it collapsed and writhed, and he warily took a few steps closer, braced to dump in another round.

A rustling, chattering noise at his feet brought his gaze to the most terrifying sight he'd ever seen, in twenty-odd years of hunting every supernatural, evil sons-of-bitches there were. The four small, tiny little furry faces that watched him were full of excitement and awe, and the one big furry face was seriously pissed off.

"Oh, God." Apparently, those two words weren't a prayer, but a threat, and the monster let him have it.

* * *

The evil bastard he was trailing vanished in a swirl of white as the shots rang out, and Dean spun nimbly, racing back the way that he had last seen Sam, and the direction of the shots. He half expected the split to be an illusion, but without knowing who the original was…

Though, he was a bit pissed that Sam had managed to squeeze off a shot before the older brother could. His memory vaguely remembered this being where they had split off, and he raised his voice, calling for his brother. "SAM!"

"Oh, god." The words weren't loud, but suggested his brother was closer than he expected. He kept the gun in his hand, grip tight as he trotted closer. After a few moments, the scent started to thicken, cloying, and he took a moment to work the neck of his tee up and over his nose, gagging as the scent continued.

"_Damnit _Sam…" His little brother was standing in between a melted pile of green goo, and a fluffy skunk that was ambling away. "Dude, you are SO not getting in my car reeking like _that_."


	11. Chapter 11: River

Challenge word: River

Meaning: A large, natural source of moving water, larger than a creek.

Word Count: 491 (Close…)

Time Frame: Anywhere. Really.

Warnings/Spoilers: I can't even find Potty-mouth Dean in here. This is squeaky clean!

* * *

Dean couldn't help but appreciate the view that the Montana landscape offered right now, the snow thick and quiet along the scenery, muffling the sounds as the Impala growled down the strip of black through the endless white. The stars seemed to be on earth, reflecting off the glossy black paint, twinkling snow reflecting the moon like thousands of fallen stars.

The chattering in the seat beside him though, that wasn't so much perfect scenery. He tried to smother the grin that rose when he glanced over, Sam looking like a 6-something drowned rat, hair plastered wetly to his skull, burrowed under the emergency blanket, looking just miserable. "How you doin' Sammy?"

"Fi-fi-fine." Sam yelped, pressing a hand against his mouth. That glare of his could have boiled water.

Dean didn't even have to ask. But he did anyway. "Bit your tongue, didn't you?"

Sam nodded miserably.

"Told you to stay in sight." But he did reach down and crank the heat up higher, trying to coax just a bit more out of the old girl. Sam shivered hard, a whole body jerk abruptly before it settled back into steady shivers, teeth chattering hard behind pale cheeks. "Why don't you bite the edge of your hoodie? Stop your teeth from clattering together."

"Ss-suc-sucks." Sam sniffed wetly, wormed a wet sleeve out of the blanket to rub at his face before burrowing back into the illusion of warmth.

"I know kiddo. Told you though." He glanced at the odometer, sighed. "We're still a ways out. You sure you're doin okay?"

Sam shifted, the leather of the Impala squeaking indigently as he pressed wet clothes to a spot that _had been_ dry. "Nn-nnottt gonna dd-die Dean." He paused, sniffing hard, and grumbled low. "Just co-cold."

"Hypothermia man. Nothing to fuck with. We could always pull over, let you towel off some more. Maybe there's some dry clothes in the mess in the trunk?"

The glare Sam gave him was totally worth it. Not like he'd actually let his dripping wet brother back out into the snowy cold without the motel room door just steps away. Another yelp, and Sam bit the collar of his hoodie, glaring out the windshield.

"I told you, stay in sight. We knew this thing had a penchant for dragging people down into the river. If you had stayed close, you wouldn't have gotten nabbed." Sam sneezed wetly, coughed hard, and snuffled. "Jeez."

And if, later, while Sam was in the shower, groaning and chattering under the hot spray, Dean dashes across the street to the minimart after laying towels against the radiator, well, it's not because he's getting a craving for hot chocolate. It's just because he's an awesome big brother, and knows just the best thing to finish banishing the lingering bite of chill.

And the gratitude on Sammy's face is totally worth the croak of thanks, even as he bellyaches about the lack of mini marshmallows.


	12. Chapter 12: Sound

Challenge word: Sound

Meaning: the particular auditory effect produced by a given cause.

Word Count: 500

Time Frame: Set after Season 4, due to a mention of Hell. But beyond that, it could be anywhere.

Warnings/Spoilers: No spoilers, but a massive WINCEST warning. Nothing overtly graphic, no NC-17 stuff, but it does contain mentions of boy-love. You have been warned. Don't like it, don't read it. You read it, don't flame me for it. Savvy?

* * *

_Okay, I have to toss in a note here. I know, I said no more S words for a little while. But this one popped up, and wow…the muse attacked. First draft, first go at it, and it stopped at 500 words dead on, no playing. And, I kinda like this one. So it's going up. Sorry everyone. Again, it does contain Wincest, for those of you who don't like it. You can leave now. *motions to the exits*

* * *

_

_**WINCEST WARNING WINCEST WARNING**

* * *

_

Dean knows every sound Sam makes. Born of fear, anger, frustration, amusement, joy, sorrow…it doesn't matter. He knows every last one. He started building his library of Sammy-Sounds the first day he saw the small bundle, the startled inhale from the baby as soon as hazel eyes met green.

He became better than Mary at telling what cries meant Sam was wet, or hungry, or cold, or just plain unhappy.

Some sounds he hates. The hiss of breath between clenched teeth as a needle bites deep, or the harsh pant of pain. The gagging retching noise is one that twists his stomach, not just from the event, but the fact that his Sammy is hurting, and there's nothing to make it better. The low, confused groan of consciousness in the hospital, that's another one that adds years of sorrow to the burden on Dean's shoulders. The strangled cries for a lost, dead lover, those are like a dagger to the heart. Those are the sounds that he wishes he never heard; a pile of dark and painful spots that he tries to bury in the recesses of his mind, away from ever hearing again.

Some sounds he goes out of his way to goad. The huff of annoyance at finding his entire list of files on the computer renamed randomly, the smothered laugh as Dean intentionally fumbles a shot at the dartboard, the breathy snort as Sam shakes his head in amusement. The exasperated name as Dean pokes and prods. Those are good sounds, ones that Dean collects like tiny jewels, to run through his fingers as consolation during stretches where Sam doesn't add to them.

Some sounds, he adores. Hoards them like gold, and releases them only in the dark, quiet confines of his mind. They're sounds that he used to escape the torture on the racks, ones he made damned sure no demon ever pried out of him. They're special, and he treasures each and every last one of them.

The soft inhale of worship as Dean mouths a hipbone, Sam's eyes catching stars as he kicks his head back, fingers clenching red and gold and orange leaves under the cover of October skies.

The groan of pleasure as Dean rocks against him, nipping bites along shoulders and soothing them just as quickly with a tongue.

The laugh that's only heard as Dean rubs stubbled-cheeks against sensitive sides, almost a child's squeal of pleasurable-torture, lanky body twisting as the laugh rises.

The impatient sound, not a whine, not a keen, just a sound of demand, of impatience, as Dean teases, drags out the inevitable.

The hoarse cry of his brother's name, as Dean slides him over the edge, Sam shuddering as eyes flutter closed.

The quiet, sleepy murmur of questioning contentment against Dean's back in the dark, whenever Dean moves too far. And the matching breath of pleasure and relaxation as Dean moves back into the warm circle of his brother's arms.

He knows every sound Sam makes.


	13. Chapter 13: Ecstatic

Challenge word: Ecstatic

Meaning: Jubilant, overjoyed, bursting with pleasure.

Word Count: 496

Time Frame: Anywhere. I see it late Season 2, but meh, whenever you want it.

Warnings/Spoilers: Potty-mouthed Dean is back. Apparently, he's not too happy.

* * *

_Figured since the last one was Wincest, and not every enjoys that, I'd toss in this one too, as a consolation prize. May be a little OC for Sam, but that's why I see it season 2, when he's not worried about Dean's deal, or anything else that Kripke dumped into their laps.

* * *

_

It didn't take much to make Dean happy. He was a simple man, had simple pleasures. A thick hearty burger, dripping with extra onions; a hefty slab of steak, cooked rare enough a good vet could still resuscitate it; a cold brew, especially if given with a nice view of cleavage.

Even simpler, a long stretch of black highway, a full tank of gas, classic rock twisting through the air, and not another car in sight, on the way to a quick and easy case.

When all the above met up together, Dean was an ecstatic man. Well, should be, Sam mused idly. To be fair, he had warned Dean to get the burger well-done, rather than rare. The joint just didn't look that healthy. It sorta looked like his brother did now, hunched over and groaning in the passenger seat. Who knew onions burned when they came back up a few hours later? Anyway, when the wind blew just right, he could still catch a whiff of the beer he'd had dumped over him, soaking almost instantly into the dry leather.

Again, Sam had warned him, the waitress had been eyeing the bartender's ass all night. Though, the bartender did look great in that pink miniskirt. Still… he couldn't say he was surprised when a leer and a flirt wound up with the local microbrew all over his brother.

Dean groaned again, and Sam cocked a brow at him. "Want me to turn down the music?" He had dug through the glove box earlier, looking for his sunglasses, muttering about the sun and paint jobs and glares, but Sam was pretty sure they were back in Illinois. Maybe Indiana?

"How 'bout you just shoot me?" The words were low and snarled, almost guttural, and Sam laughed, strumming his fingers along the Impala's door as he air-guitared to the music.

"Maybe next time someone suggests not ordering food that's not been cooked, you'll listen? Or are you enjoying that lovely food poisoning over there?" He wasn't overly worried; Aside from puking all night, Dean was doing good, the headache and lingering aching ribs seeming to be the worst of it.

"How about you fuck off and die."

"Aww, now, you don't mean that! See, I was thinking of stopping in the next town, getting a nice big thermos of hot, strong as hell coffee, maybe a few little painkillers, and setting you up in the backseat to sleep off the rest of it."

A green eye cracked open and appraised the younger Winchester. "Why?"

A smirk. "Because I'm an awesome little brother?" Dean gave a snort, but it was laced with affection rather than derision, and he curled back into himself, groaning as the Impala flirted with a rough patch of the road.

* * *

As it turns out, sometimes, it just takes the quiet wind blowing through the window, a blanket draped over curled shoulders, and a hearty dose of pain killers to make Dean ecstatic.


	14. Chapter 14: Adept

Challenge word: Adept

Meaning: very skilled; proficient; expert.

Word Count: 507

Time Frame: Teen to adult time frame. I see adult more than teen, but that's me.

Warnings/Spoilers: May possibly be out-of-character a smidge, but hey, sue me. Creative licensing. No wincest, but physical affection between two males. Depends on how twitchy you are. I see it more aww than eww, but hey.

* * *

Dean rolled his neck, grunting as the vertebra popped loudly in the quiet. His eyes never left the newspaper, and when he did it again not ten minutes later, Sam realized that Dean didn't even know he was doing it.

"Dude."

Green eyes flicked up, meeting frustrated hazel, and Dean's forehead wrinkled. "What?"

"Stop it. It's annoying, and you're gonna get arthritis in your neck when you're older." Dean shrugged, went back to his paper, and Sam shook his head, fingers clacking across the keyboard again.

Another crunch, and Sam huffed.

"Dean."

"Sorry!"

Not more than five minutes later, another pop, and Dean winced even before Sam opened his mouth. "What the hell?"

"Nothing, just…got a headache is all," Dean muttered, hunching in on himself a little. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Try aspirin, instead of breaking your damned neck."

"Took some earlier, didn't help." Sam sighed, and closed the laptop, setting it on the bed as he pushed himself off.

"Sit up." At Dean's panicked look, Sam laughed. "Chill, I'm not going to kill you. Sit up."

Wary, Dean did, flinching instinctively as Sam set his fingers on the back of Dean's neck. "For the love of god…"

"Shush." With adept fingers long-since trained, Sam gently felt up and along the vertebrae, noticing but not commenting as Dean shuddered when Sam's fingers slid into the short fine hairs at the base of his skull, or how Dean slowly relaxed as the touch slid down the back of his shirt to his shoulder blades. "Nothing's out, so stop popping them, before you fuck them up. You're just tense."

The words weren't even out of Sam's mouth before Dean was rolling his neck, and Sam didn't hesitate to cuff his older brother firmly. "OW!"

"Stop it." Sam smirked, and gripped his brother's neck, hauling his sibling up and out of the chair, leading him to the bed and shoving him roughly onto it. "Roll over."

Narrowed green eyes promised retaliation later. "I'm not indulging in your kinky fantasies Samantha."

Sam shrugged. "Roll over, or I make you." Dean glared harder, but obliged, bitching and muttering into the pillow.

"There, happy? Gonna read me a story too?"

"Shut it." Sam couldn't help but laugh as Dean went taut as a wire when Sam climbed onto the bed, straddling Dean's hips, settling his weight on his own heels, but leaving enough firm pressure to keep Dean in place. "Relax, I'm not stealing your virtue. Just relax, okay?"

Whatever Dean was about to snark in reply was lost in a groan as Sam started kneading his trapezius, fingers sure and firm. The callouses from years of handling weapons provided just enough traction, and Dean swallowed hard, struggling to keep from whimpering like a nancy. "God, you're such a girl."

"Yeah, but if it keeps you quiet…" Sam let it trail off, slowly finding and untwisting each knot he found with adeptness.

When he was done, Dean was out like a light, and Sam smirked, settling in to finish his research in peace.


	15. Chapter 15: Exploit

_I. am. so. sorry. *cringes* I know, it's been 5 weeks since an update. I'm sorry! My muse decided it wanted to up and vanish. But it's good now. It returned. And, in slightly related news, I've been fostering a newborn kitten. That means, every 2 hours, I'm up bottlefeeding. Sleep is my new best friend. I was sleeping at work, if that gives you an idea. Hopefully, we're better nows. All is well again. In other news, I now has a LiveJournal. Username is the usual SilverBlaze85. There's a link on my profile. There WILL be updates over there that won't be here, so fair warning there. _

* * *

Challenge word: Exploit

Meaning: To employ to one's greatest advantage. Also, to make use of selfishly or unethically.

Word Count: 511.

Time Frame: Adult, in an alternative universe.

Warnings/Spoilers: Lots, lots of warnings. Let's see...we've got human trafficking, slavery, implied male/male sexual interest, dark. Oh, and it's an AU. The next one, "Release", directly follows. I blame this on...yeah, I dunno. But, um...enjoy?

* * *

Dean is a wealthy man, one with considerable influence over the majority of the government, so the worm of a man in front of him knows better than to argue with him. Dean alone provides great…compensation for the troubles the dealer goes through, to the point that the worm took some initiative this time. Spoke his way through the vines, made sure his murmurs of an especially delectable boy is delivered to Dean's ear.

The flesh-dealer once commented on Dean's quick overturn of the slaves he buys, expressed disgruntlement over the constant replacements, suspicion that maybe Dean was more wicked than he in his exploits. And after his wrist had healed over, he had decided it best to stick to Dean's pleasant side.

So he ushers the wealthy man in, silent as they passed his newest arrivals, wrists heavily bruised under thick shackles, eyes still expressing fear and anger. Dean can spot some of the older ones, their eyes long since blank, the minds withdrawn so far into themselves.

The slaver opens a door, frowns as a low and threatening growl rumbles out of a gilded cage just inside. "See, my good sir? My men found him, and I couldn't help but think he'd be perfect for you. I had them handle him extra careful for you. He's thoroughly unused."

Dean picks his way neatly around the cage, eyes shuttered and guarded, as he watches the young man inside. He'll admit, the boy is a pretty one. Longer chocolate locks are limp, hanging into hazel eyes that are snapping in anger. There's a darling cleft in his chin, pulling attention to his strong and clenched jaw. There's a collar on the youth, locked close with a tiny gold padlock, and a glance to wrists show the same treatment again, the chain between them gilded. Dean filters through words as he completes his circuit, noticing the eyes watching him express such hatred. "He is…very worthy. You did well."

The worm looks pleased, dark eyes greedy as he bobs his head like the quail Dean has in his yard. "Thank you, sir. I thought you'd appreciate him, sir." The youth in the cage hisses, and Dean smirks at him, turns back to the dealer.

"The price?"

"6." Dean's eyes narrow; the youth is worthy, yes, but not exotic. The most he's paid here is not over four thousand, and that was for a very unique boy. He glances at his nails, buffs them lightly on his jacket as Robert, his body guard, shifts ominously behind them.

"I decline."

"But sir! He is perfect! Untouched!" Dean watches him blankly, and the man chews his finger, finally sighs. "Alright. I suppose I can do 5, but no lower, mind you."

"I decline." He turns to leave, makes it three steps before the worm rushes.

"4!"

"You'll make it three, or there's no deal." The words are cold and bored, but the dealer nods, hands him keys eagerly. "Very well." He eyes the youth, who's gone still, and smiles. "Robert? Bring the boy to the car."


	16. Chapter 16: Release

Challenge word: Release

Meaning: To set free.

Word Count: 496

Time Frame: Adult, in an alternative universe.

Warnings/Spoilers: We got lots. Dark. Deals with slavery and human trafficking. Better than "Exploit" was though. Still AU.

* * *

Dean watches the youth he bought several weeks ago. He's pressed against the thick leaded glass windows, eyes closed as the golden sunlight pours in, and again Dean wonders if he bought a slave or a lion. The kid hisses rather than speaks, and once washed, the mass of his hair fluffs out, looking like an amusing imitation mane. He's prone to stopping in patches of light, hazel eyes sliding shut in pleasure.

Dean shakes his head, coughs at the tickle in his throat, and flinches as the slave jumps, eyeing him with a mixture of guilt and fearlessness. The gold lock that nestles into the hollow of the boy's throat glints, and Dean is reminded of why he sought out the boy. "Sam, come with me." He's not surprised when the youth's eyes drop, as a proper slave's is supposed to, and he again cradles that pleasure that Sam isn't broken, held tightly enough to his anger and rage to keep from turning into the blank-eyed dolls that Dean sees frequently.

He leads them out to the barn, where the open space and the warm, heavy scent of horse and hay blends, amused again as Sam's shoulders drop, tension bleeding out of them. That's the sign Dean was seeking, and he forced himself to be casual as he fished out a sugar lump, stroking the nose of his palamino stallion fondly as he kept his voice steady.

He explains what he does, buying the unbroken slaves, especially the ones that could fetch a grand and handsome rate. Settles them into his grand house for weeks, gets them accustomed to touches that don't mean pain or violence, gets them fed and tamed down.

And he turns them loose. The soft inhale behind him says that Sam does speak their language, which the wealthy man was starting to doubt, and he inclines his head. "I won't hurt you Sam." He turns, smiling faintly as the stallion drapes his huge head over Dean's chest, sighing noisily, and he pats the velvety muzzle as he watches his newest slave. Those dark hazel eyes are suspicious, but Dean can see the hope in them, the hope that appears in every one of his strays and rescues, animal and human alike, and he fights to keep from smirking in delight. "So long as I'm around, nothing bad will ever happen to you. You understand?" Sam nods, and Dean continues. "So whenever you're ready, we'll release you." Long fingers toy with the collar that still wraps around his elegant neck, and Dean nods. "That's staying, for now. To protect you. As long as you're wearing that, it says you belong to me. And nobody wants to anger me. So they'll leave you alone. Whenever you're ready, we'll take it off. And you'll be free to go."

"If I stay?" The words are husky, disused, and Dean ducks his head, smiling.

"That'll be just fine too, Sam. You can do whatever you want."


	17. Chapter 17: Protection

Challenge word: Protection

Meaning: Guarding, watching over, ensuring the safety of.

Word Count: 528. Yeah...WAY over. I couldn't find much more to cut though! -_- I already cut out 50 words...

Time Frame: Pre-series. We got Wee-chesters, my friends!

Warnings/Spoilers: Ouhm...None.

* * *

John knows sigils to protect, symbols from every culture and every country, finds his fingers tracing them when his mind is miles away. He knows herbs that banish, can identify them by scent as easily as sight, knows what's in season where. There are words, which have the power to ward off presences, from places long dead, the tongues of the peoples long since turned to dust.

And as he teaches Dean the same secrets, (making a game of the herbs, seeing if he can spot the greenery that he needs in a meadow that they stop for Sam to romp in, encouraging the boy to make the sigils out of shaving cream in the shower, uses the words as safe words during hunts), he wonders if he's cursing the boy or protecting him. Surely Mary would have hated him for this, dragging her babies across the country too many times to count now, holing up wherever they can while he tracks down other hunters, tries to find the thing that killed his bride.

At first, he didn't see the signs, only noticed when he stumbled over a pentacle made of legos on his way to get coffee, that he started to see. Watched the little hands, the ones that made designs of spaghetti or gravel or paint, or later, when offered holy water, tracing them carefully on the windows each night as their routine. Hears the ancient Latin squealed as he begs his brother to stop the tickling, used again as a benign safe word. Smiles quietly when Sam tugs on Dean's hand, holding up a bouquet of greens, little face proud of his discovery.

And one night, after bandaging Sammy's knees that were torn and packed with gravel from a spectacular fall in the parking lot, tears dried and soothed by Dean's voice reading from a book, John wonders if he's doing a bad thing, encouraging and almost directing Dean to guard and watch his little brother.

Mary burned above Sam's bed, her blood marring his little cupids-bow mouth, and he can't help but feel an intense urge to protect what she died for. And really, aren't big brother's supposed to watch out for their little siblings?

He leans against the Impala in the dark, taking a slow drag from a cigarette as he watched the stars wheel above him, and wonders. Some nagging sense warns that if he continues down this path, he'll find himself alone, and the two boys bound tightly together. He's starting to see it already, Dean torn when John and Sammy get the gleam of butting heads in their eyes. It's small things now, but the youngest Winchester is so stubborn, John has no doubts that the battles will be huge down the road. Is it fair to put Dean in that position.

He realizes, when he's stitching shut the gouges from a Black Dog on Dean's back years later, that it's too late now. Dean didn't hesitate to shove his brother to safety, protecting the youngest at the cost of his own blood.

He wonders again if he's teaching protection, or sacrifice. And he wonders where this road will lead.


	18. Chapter 18: Camping

Challenge word: Camping

Meaning: To live outdoors, for any short length of time.

Word Count: 503

Time Frame: Adult. any time though, after the pilot. ^_^

Warnings/Spoilers: None as far as I can see!

* * *

Dean shivered against Sam's back, huffing in agitation as the sleet pelting the tarp hit harder, almost in retaliation. He felt Sam's answering shiver, and buried his face against the coat in front of him, stifling whimpers as his brain teased him with images of warm motels, hot showers, steam showers, the Impala's vents billowing out hot, shimmery air, vaguely Lego-scented, hot mugs of coffee, and thick comforters. "Damnit, this sucks."

"I know." Sam hunched his shoulders, trying to burrow into himself, and Dean groaned as a gust shook their precarious shelter, knifing through clothing to pluck at what little body-warmth they had managed to secure. "God."

"Camping sucks." He didn't know why people actually _wanted_ to go camping. It wasn't like it was any fun. Huddling in the woods, at the mercy of Mother Nature…what a thrill. "Dude, the Impala sounds like paradise about now," Dean groaned, fighting the urge to shove his hands under Sam's coat.

His little brother was a freaking furnace any other time.

"Camping isn't so bad." Sam's voice was quiet and weary, and Dean paused, turned it over and over in his mind, trying to decide if it was just quiet, or if Sam was starting to doze off. Figuring it best to play it safe..

"How in hell do you figure that? Uh, you seen the situation? Can't say this is exactly prime lodging."

Sam snorted wryly, groaning as a hard set of shivers wracked his body, shuddering violently before they faded. "Not my fault the North East had a freak storm blow in."

"Yeah, yeah. Still, this sucks."

"So you've said. Many times."

"It does. We get back, we're so renting a hotel room. With a hot tub. Maybe a sauna. And demand hot fluffy towels and sheets. And thick fluffy robes." He nodded his agreement to his mental vacation, submerged in a warmth of luxury, and grinned as he felt Sam's ribs shake in laughter.

"Dude, you're mental, you know that?"

"Hey, at least I don't think camping is fun!" Sam twisted just enough to peer over his shoulder, dark eyes curious as he watched Dean. "What? I don't. It sucks."

Sam's lips twisted into a wry smirk and he shook his head, burrowing into himself again as he shivered. "'s not so bad."

"Uh-huh. Whatever man."

Quiet lasted for awhile, drawn out as both tried to shiver and stay awake, and Dean startled when Sam spoke again. "Freshman year, group of us went camping. It was weird man, not laying down runes or listening for a Windigo or anything. Just…enjoying the bonfires, getting eaten alive by mosquitos, stuffing ourselves sick on hot dogs and s'mores and pie-iron sandwiches." His voice is quiet and wistful, and Dean finds himself softening, wondering if Sam misses the normal life more than he lets on. "But, you know. Hunting doesn't do well with camping."

No, but Dean still thinks that next time there's a lull in hunting, maybe they can find a campground for a few days.


	19. Chapter 19: Attack

Challenge word: Attack

Meaning: To set upon with violent force.

Word Count: 500 dead on. *dance*

Time Frame: Adult, any point in the series.

Warnings/Spoilers: Um, none?

* * *

He hadn't been gone long. Just enough to hit the vending machine and grab a lemon-lime soda for Sam and ensure the Impala was locked. Somehow, in that short period of time, the mountain of used and crumpled Kleenex had multiplied. He sighed, setting the soda on the table to warm, and toed off his shoes, listening to the wet snuffling under the covers. "You feelin any better kiddo?"

"Kill me." Even knowing Sam was joking, the thought still sent a flicker through Dean. "Please."

"You don't mean that."

Sam opened his mouth, inhaling to argue, when the air attacked, causing a nice, long, violent coughing spell, that ended with the youngest Winchester spitting green goop into a handful of tissues. He made a face at it, dropping it with its nasty brethren, and groaned quietly as he slumped.

"Or, maybe you do. Come on, let's get some cold meds in you, then you can sleep." Sam nods tiredly, stays vertical as Dean measures out a shot glass full, hands the glass over. Sam tips his head back, and the lights decide to follow the air, and attack.

"Ehh-_KHSHHH! KSHSHH! KHSHH-_huh!"

Dean eyes the green NyQuil that's now coating the bedspread, and shakes his head, silently pouring out another dose. Hands it over. Braces himself. Sighs in relief as Sam manages to swallow before the remaining sneezes sneak out.

"Why me? Why couldd't you get dis? Huh? You're the ode that was od the playground wif dose kids. I just sat in the car. What did I do?" Sam's voice faded several days ago, so all that's left is a hoarse croaking sound, sounding amusingly similar to a crow or a raven, and Dean smothers a laugh at the mental image that crops up, of a Crow-Sammy sitting in the bed, glaring at him over that long black beak.

"I dunno Sammy. Maybe it's all that healthy food you eat. Red meat is good for your immune system. Just ask any Texan. You don't see those guys hacking back salads, now do you? They're as healthy as horses."

Sam offers a bleary scowl before he curls under the blankets, shivering slightly as he breathes. Dean thumps the mountain of blankets fondly, tries to ignore the squishy feel of used tissues underfoot, and starts to crawl into his own bed.

"_Huh-huh-haAAAA_-TCSHSCHCHHHHH!"

Dean pauses as the far bed squeaks in protest, raises a brow at the silence that lingers for a moment before the soft "owww."

"Uh…you okay there Sammy?"

Sam snuffles congestedly, groans quietly, and coughs wetly. "Orange juice?"

Dean eyes the warming can of soda, eyes the sickly little brother. Sighs, stands, and stuffs his feet back into his shoes. "Just, stop the Kleenex from breeding over there. Or, have the clean ones go at it like bunnies. We don't need anymore dirty ones."

He's a sucker for Sam's puppy eyes, but an even bigger sucker for the beam of thanks that he gets when he hands over the juice.


	20. Chapter 20: Whittle

Challenge word: Whittle

Meaning: To pare shavings from, or to shape via shaving small pieces off.

Word Count: 491. *shrugs* Makes up for Leather, I suppose.

Time Frame: Wee-chesters, pre-series.

Warnings/Spoilers: Language, not really sure if they're in character or not. *chews lip*

* * *

Bobby slid the knife along the wood, peeling the bark in a smooth strip to coil at his boots, and bit the inside of his cheek as he felt green eyes watching him. He waited, steadily stripping the bark off the branch, only glancing up before he got down to serious business. Rufus had mentioned a possible hunt down in New Orleans, the damned French quarter and their dabblings in the supernatural, and he thought it may be a matagot that went rogue. Damned things were a frickin nuisance, that's what they were.

John had dropped the boys in the living room before staggering up the stairs, pale and shaking in the way that usually implied a pretty good blood loss. He'd been up in the bathroom for about an hour now, and Bobby was tossing around the idea of checking on his dumb ass. He glanced again; Sam was in front of the television, eyes wide as he watched the Thundercats, and Dean was watching him intently, peering over the side of the couch as his eyes tracked the knife.

Bobby shifted in the chair, tilted his head in invite when green eyes flicked up, and wasn't surprised when Dean casually sauntered over, all nonchalance. "Your daddy show you how to whittle down a piece of wood yet boy?"

Dean shook his mop of hair, chewed a lip as he watched the knife bite easily into the soft wood. Bobby had found it easier to use soft wood, harden it in the kiln in the garage, than to fuss with the harder woods. At his age, anything to make the job easier was a thing he'd take. A thought occurred to the older Hunter, and he canted his head, brow furrowing. "Your Dad did show you how to use a knife, right?"

The look of obvious 'duh' on the boy's face is priceless, and he rummages in his torn jeans to produce a pocket knife in a grubby fist. It's a bit bigger than he would trust a six year old with, but then again, he wouldn't drag two kids cross-country in an obsessive hunt, either. The knife is spotless, despite the grunge on the kid, and he holds his hand out, grunts approvingly at the heft of the tool, at the sharp edge the kid has honed on it. "Aight, come here."

Dean's always been edgy, but he clambers up onto Bobby's knee, watches keenly as Bobby murmurs low and quiet the finer points of whittling to the kid. It's not long before Dean glances up in askance, and the elder lets him take a hunk of wood, the blade digging into the softness.

When John stumbles down later, thick gauze over his shoulder apparent through his shirt, and raises a brow at his son's activities, Bobby just shrugs. "Figured it couldn't hurt for him to learn," he says, smothers a grin as Dean presents his work for judgment.


	21. Chapter 21: Gamble

Challenge word: Gamble (suggested by the awesome Shadowess_88)

Meaning: to stake something on a contingency; take a chance.

Word Count: 500 dead on. *dance*

Time Frame: Adult, any point in the series.

Warnings/Spoilers: Um, none?

* * *

Oh yeah, that had been a bad idea. Dean slid down the wall, let the coldness soak into his skin as he leaned his head back against the tiles. Oh, yeah. The pressure of the wall on his skull _said_ the room wasn't moving, but the instant his eyes slid shut, it felt like he was on a tilt-n-whirl. He swallowed hard, slid into the deep and steady breathing John always guided them through when their bodies rebelled against them, and fought to remind himself that the room was steady.

After a few breaths, the room settled with a grumble, and he shoved himself upright slowly and hesitatingly, inordinately pleased that the walls stayed still. He stumbled to the sink, filling the flimsy paper motel cup with the tap water before he smirked to himself. Halfway done so far.

Halfway. Shit. He eyed the distance to the bed from his vantage point at the sink, and swallowed a whimper of dismay and frustration. It shouldn't be so fucking exhausting to walk those few feet. He scrubbed a hand over his face, annoyed as he realized he could feel the prickle of sweat along his spine. Fuck. Its six steps to the toilet, where he sat down heavily, leaned back against the cold porcelain, let the chill fight the heat sweeping through him.

A week later, and he's still (trying to) kick the ass of the freaking cold that nailed him after a plunge into the river. After a freaking black dog, of all things. He snorted in the small bathroom, frustrated, and heard the sheets rustling quietly, a breathy whimper of pain from the bed.

It was supposed to be a simple salt and burn. Yeah, he wasn't a 100% yet, but even he could hold a flashlight and salt tin, wait for Sam to dig through dirt, torch the bones.

Apparently, Casper didn't get the memo. He had joined the party, angry and violent, and did Dean mention that the bastard had been a wrestler? He hadn't heard the snap of Sam's arm over the bellowing of the ghost and the rustling of leaves, but he'd seen the white pain and the clenched jaw in the inferno of the aftermath.

Broken bones sucked, and the doctors in the emergency rooms always seemed to take one look at his Sasquatch brother, and assume it would take a good deal to make him loopy. Too bad Sam was a lightweight when it came to painkillers, and the drugs they'd doctored him with last night was still working its way through him. Which left Sam passed out on the bed, arm propped up on pillows, held out awkwardly as he tried to fight his way awake, and Dean weak and shivering and dying to wash the cold meds out of his mouth. It was a gamble to chance to get to the bathroom, and, eyeing the distance, wondered how well his poker face would work.

Because damn, he was only halfway there.


	22. Chapter 22: Leather

Challenge word: Leather

Meaning: The dressed or tanned hide of an animal, usually with the hair removed. 2. Any of various articles or parts made of dressed or tanned hide, such as a jacket.

Word Count: 529… the angst just kept rollin on.

Time Frame: Adult, sometime early season 2.

Warnings/Spoilers: Angsty, a few spoilers for late Season 3. Nothing major, just a nod to an episode I can't even remember right now.

* * *

Sam never comments on the fact that Dean takes the saddle soap and mink oil and steps out, stays gone for hours for a job that should only take minutes, come back with red-rimmed eyes and a runny nose that he blames on allergies, nevermind the snow outside.

It's only started since Dad died, after all.

He knows, logically, that Dean sits in the Impala, feet planted firmly on the dirt, grounding himself as best he can, bottle of whiskey between his feet as he works the soap into the leather jacket, pulling up the dirt and blood, sweat and tears, guts and gore of their lives, cleanses the leather in a way he can't seem to cleanse himself. He takes the same care and devotion that he applies to cleaning the Impala, or their weapons, or a wound. Steady and worshipping, revering in the only way he knows how.

He always works more over the worst of the gouges and scrapes, takes the time to make sure every last bit is out, before he puts it away, takes a strong bracing swallow from the fifth, scrubs a forearm over his face before pulling out the mink oil.

Sam can remember a few times, lying on a motel bed, watching Dad do the same ritual as he waited for the boys to drift off. Watching his Dad's scarred and rough hands tenderly and lovingly work in the oils, knead the leather dark and supple again, wedding band winking lightly in the dim light, was mesmerizing in a unique way. He cleaned the guns in a quick but efficient manner, not wasting time or movements, everything crisp and precise.

The Impala and the jacket always got special treatment though, one that increased as he handled Sam and Dean less, almost as if he was transferring that touch to the two items in his life that still held a lot of meaning, instead of on his sons, the heirs that he was grooming into top Hunters.

There are still days that Sam has to find something meaningless to do, something idle, just _something_ to get out of the motel room that will smell of saddle soap and mink oil and leather and _Dad_. If he closes his eyes, he can almost see Dad, especially since Dean uses the same fucking aftershave, and that damned jacket still smells like Dad, with the faintest touch of Dean underneath it all.

It smells like home. And that, right now, just rips his guts out, in a way he didn't think would happen, not after seeing his future burn to ashes alongside Jessica.

After that last hunt, the claws that slashed deep into the leather, Sam's half-expecting Dean to want to stick around, get the leather touched up professionally. But deep in his heart-of-hearts, he knows better. Knows that Dean doesn't want anyone else's hands on it, not anymore.

And several months down the road, when Dean pulls out the leather kit, gruffly calls Sam over and wordlessly starts showing him how to take care of the leather, like the Impala, Sam has to fight hard to keep the tears from showing in his eyes.


	23. Chapter 23: Kindness

I know, I'm horrible! I'm awful! I don't have any excuses as to why this is 3 weeks late. *sighs* I just dunno. It happened. Too much RL to deal with lately. *garumps* More next week.

_

* * *

Challenge word: Kindness_

_Meaning: An act of good will, to benefit someone other than yourself. _

_Word Count: 555… Yeah. I kinda liked that number. And this is paring it back from over 600. :/_

_Time Frame: Erm, I see it set around Season 2, maybe 3, possibly 4. Take a pick. _

_Warnings/Spoilers: None I can think of. *shrugs* _

_

* * *

_

"Hang on Sammy, I see lights up ahead. Told you we weren't that far from civilization." Sam doesn't bother answering, just whimpers as the tires stray too close to the rumble strips, just curls around the rags pressed against his side. "Sam? Talk to me man." Dena's voice leaves no room for argument, and Sam snarls a little, glaring across the seats.

"I just got gutted by a fucking Black Dog, in the middle of Hicksville, Ohio, and you want me to be Chatty Cathy?" The Impala slides to a stop as the red stop light casts an ugly shade over Sam, and Dean nods a little, clenches the steering wheel harder.

And a half-hour later, pulling into the sixth and last lodging in the city, he wants to beat his head on the steering wheel. The parking lot is full of motorcycles, and really? The place looks outta their price range. By a lot. He grits his teeth, reminds himself it's just for tonight, and they'll be outta there by the time that the cards decline. He just needs somewhere to put Sam, stitch his brother back together, and get a few hours of shut eye before moving again.

The dark lobby bodes ill, even worse when the plump woman behind the counter eyes him warily as he approaches. He doesn't even get to ask about a room before she shakes her head. "We're sold out."

"Fuck." His shoulders slump, and he scrubs a hand through his hair. "Is there _anywhere_ that has a room?"

"Not likely. Biker Rodeo in town, and the entire town booked up oh, about a month ago. There's no room in a 4 hour radius from here." She shifts, and the scent of strong, strong coffee wafts over him like a seductive perfume. He sighs, rubs the bridge of his nose roughly.

"Alright, alright. Any possible way I can get some of that coffee? Then I'll get outta your hair, I swear." He can use the Impala, not the first time they've camped in it.

"Who's that?" He turns, sees Sam slumped against the side of the Impala, shakes his head.

"My brother. He's uh, he's a little hurt." She hums, shifts her weight as she eyes him, and then Sam.

"Alright, look. I'll get fired if my boss hears a _word_ of this, got it? But I have 1 room. It's out of order, since the ceiling is cracked. It's a handicap, but, if you PROMISE me you'll be outta here by 9, then I can sneak you in. Twenty bucks and we'll call it even, got it? Housekeeping finds you in there, I'm dead."

Money exchanges hands, and he's just settling Sammy on the king bed, trying to block the hiss of pain, when the knock startles him. It's the desk girl again, with a basket full of towels, torn and stained and ratty. "They're clean, just our rags we use. Figured…you'll need 'em." She shoves them and a big thermos of the strong coffee at him, casts an eye over Sam. "You guys okay?" He nods, and she hesitates a second. "Breakfast starts at 4 am, runs until 9 am, okay? Down in the lobby. Sleep well guys."

Sometimes, he muses as he sets about patching Sam back together, the kindness of strangers is just weird.


	24. Chapter 24: Relax

_Challenge word: Relax_

_Meaning: To make lax or loose. _

_Word Count: 500 Dead on the money. _

_Time Frame: Adult. Pick a season. _

_Warnings/Spoilers: Nope. None. Just, you know, shirtless Dean. *winks* _

_AN: This entire thing was, sadly, prompted by the mental image presented in the first paragraph. Sue me. Actually, no, don't. I owe enough right now! . _

_

* * *

_

Dean's sprawled out across the hood of the Impala, arms splayed wide as his face is pressed against the glossy black paint. He's shed his shirt at some point, shoulders wide under tanned and freckled skin, and as Sam sits up, wincing at the complaint of his back at laying on the back seat for more than ten minutes, he can see the edges of a towel peeking out from under Dean's hips.

The sun isn't all that high yet, but he can feel the heat baking into the classic car already, promising another scorcher of a day in the belly of the South, and Sam slumps his head back against the vinyl, suppresses a groan at the thought of being stuck in the traffic they're bound to encounter on a fourth of July weekend.

Dean stirs lazily as Sam shuts the back door; lifts his head and his eyelids _just_ enough to confirm its Sam, and Sam is upright and whole and intact, before dropping it back on the hood, sighing deeply as his eyes slide shut again.

Sam's lips quirk in a grin. Watching Dean sunbathe like an overgrown lizard is nothing new; in fact, it's pretty common. The black paint sucks up heat like a damned heating pad, and even he has to admit, there's something relaxing about letting the Impala soothe away the aches and bruises they tend to gather up like bizarre trophies, like a mother kissing boo-boos away from scraped knees.

He finds a cup of coffee poured for him, set close to the smoldering remains of a fire just big enough to brew with, blisteringly hot and enough to feel vaguely like a mule kicked his chest. There were times that coffeehouse coffee, with its smooth and silky seduction, was perfection. And some mornings, this rough, biting and bitter tar was exactly what his soul whimpered for. He took it back to the Impala, slumped down to rest his back against the wheel, rubber bracing his upper back as he rested his skull on the black metal, still cool where the moonlight had been the last to touch.

He waited until the mug was half gone before rolling his head to the side to watch Dean's boots dangle limply. The toe of the closest one jerked, letting Sam know that his brother had picked up the silent scrutiny, and he offered up a heavy snort of questioning, too tired still to bother with actual words. Not that he needed it with his brother. Dean gave a grunt, implying that he was just inquiring, and shifted a smidge closer, sighed slowly as the heat from the new spot baked in slowly.

Some days, it was just too easy to let the world limp by on its own for a while, and let themselves recharge and relax. He had a nagging sense that today was just one of those days, where nothing urgent and dire got done, but all the good and important things did.


	25. Chapter 25: Indulge

_Challenge word: Indulge_

_Meaning: To yield to the desires and whims of. Especially to the point of excessiveness. _

_Word Count: 500. Because, you know, I'm awesome that way. *gryns cheesily* _

_Time Frame: Adult. Pick a season. _

_Warnings/Spoilers: Um, nope? CAUTION: Author does NOT assume any responsibility should the reader decide to mimic Dean. *holds up legal documents*

* * *

_

"Dude." The tone of wonder and awe catches Sam's attention, and he turns, backtracks the few steps that separate him and his brother. Dean points to the sign with a look that reminds Sam vaguely of religious fervor, and he follows the digit, to the wooden sign proudly proclaiming the vendor's wares.

"WE SELL DEEP FRIED PIE"

Which, of course, is normal. Totally. Who _doesn't_ look at a pie, and go 'Hm, I think I'll deep-fry that!' But his brother is all but fan-girling over the sign, which just scrolls on and on and on with the various pie options. And by the sudden increase in licking his lips, Sam knows, just knows, that tonight will end with Dean bemoaning his dietary choices tonight.

But, Dean is a grown man, and if he wants to order one of every deep-fried pie they have, well…that's entirely up to him. Just starts scoping out a place for Dean to set the plate he'll soon have, heaping with fried sweets.

It was simple enough, a quiet week, driving just to drive, when the highway abruptly came to a complete stop. After sitting still for five minutes, they inched forward _just_ enough to make out the sign up ahead, proudly proclaiming this city's vegetable festival of the year, and it seemed as if the entire town had turned out in anticipation of it. And when they had turned the bend of the road, and the sea of glittering windshields had, at first, looked like an ocean, well, Sam wasn't surprised when Dean proclaimed themselves on vacation for the day, and just followed the line of cars.

And muttered loudly and with vigor at the insanity of paying some redneck ten bucks to park in his yard. Eight blocks away. But that had been hours ago, and the contented, relaxed cast to his brother's shoulders implied that Dean was enjoying himself, and Sam couldn't really argue. It was nice, to just sometimes decide to be a civilian for the day, and enjoy what they risked life and limb for regularly. The band playing in the town center had been playing Led Zeppelin, and Dean had shook his head, said something about the tempo being off as the lead wailed about being a traveler of both time and space. He'd listened a bit longer, foot tapping lightly in time, before shuffling them off, stopping briefly at a church-run vendor tent, where they'd indulged in some damned tasty pumpkin pies. That was a half hour ago, and Sam was still pleasantly full.

And when Dean got done with that heap of pies, he'd be sicker than a dog. "Jesus Dean, how many did you get?"

The older Winchester shrugged, tossed a pie lightly from hand to hand. "Damn, but they're hot. I dunno. Told her one of everything."

Sam sighed, amused and tolerant, and just made a mental note to pick up some antacids on their way back to the motel.

Dean was gonna need 'em later.


	26. Chapter 26: Nightmare

**I know, an update actually -on time-, right? Don't worry, I promise to not make a habit of it. *wicked gryn* Anyway, This one, well... tis darker and more brooding than I anticipated. Just wanted to play with John a bit. I do apologize, but look at it this way... perfect in time to appreciate the family all the more over the holidays, right? **

_Challenge word: Nightmare_

_Meaning: a dream or circumstance that can cause a strong negative emotional response from the sleeper, typically fear and/or horror._

_Word Count: 500. Because, you know, I'm awesome that way. *gryns cheesily* _

_Time Frame: Wee-chesters, but we're not playing with them. So I guess actually pre-series. I'm tormenting John some, because I rarely play with Papa. _

_Warnings/Spoilers: Oh, jeez. *squints and tilts her head* Let's see here… Pilot, Children Shouldn't Play With Dead Things, Home… *adjusts the focus on the scope* Swan Song, I suppose… Anything else, let me know, I'll add to this list. *nods* _

* * *

John leaned against the wall, watching his boys sleep on the bed, intertwined as closely as they could. The alcohol he'd nursed a few hours back was blurring the edges of the pain, softening the breathtaking ache in his chest. A long distant part of his mind knew this still wasn't healthy, that it was wrong to get this drunk when he had the boys to keep an eye on, but the date had snuck up on him, and the gut-wrenching pain and shock when he realized it had made him stutter in his tracks, hand pressed to his chest as his ring glittered in the dusk.

Two years ago, his beautiful bride, the stunning mother of the most amazing kids on the earth, the woman who had shocked him by agreeing to marry a simple mechanic, had been murdered.

He'd known, even as he had stared at her, that this was a nightmare of the worst kind. The kind you can't wake up from. Everyone had said that he was asleep still, dreaming when it happened, because that sort of thing just didn't happen. But he'd known what he'd seen, and as much as it had killed him to, they left Lawrence.

Missouri had told him about the darkness. His gut reaction was to run…bundle up his boys, and run to the furthest reaches of the earth. Anything to protect the now-silent toddler and the baby that would never know his mother. Even as the thought had flickered through his brain, though, he'd known it was impossible. Even Missouri had confirmed it.

That thing had killed Mary, and the deepest part of his gut, the one that had never steered him wrong, whispered that it would come for his boys.

He knew the moving was hard on Dean, that the kid didn't understand what was going on, constant upheaval after four years of steady normalcy, but how do you explain to a kid that you're moving around because it's not safe? Because there's a fucking bull's-eye on your family?

He snorted in the quiet, scrubbed a hand over his face. The same way you try to explain that Mommy isn't coming back, trying to explain to a kid that had no closure of any form. Mary had been so burned, so charred that there wasn't much left after the fire. Not enough for a casket, in any case.

He vaguely remembered the fights with her brother, the screaming matches as John refused to attend the funeral, refused to allow the boys near the mourners. Hell, they'd even fought over the idea of a headstone.

It was stupid to put up some marble, when there wasn't anything there to mark. Just empty, virgin ground.

No, it was easier to live with the whispers of his ghost-bride, to twist his wedding band, watch her out of the corner of his eye as she frowned at him. Hunt, kill, and keep moving.

That was the only thing left he could offer her.


	27. Chapter 27: Secrets

_I know! An update, on -time- (well, barely, but shush), and everything! _

_Yeah, I think that Hell just froze over. It's okay, Cerberus wanted to chill. ^_^ On a side note, Puppy-verse related... does -ANYONE- out there have advice on creating a gibberish language? I can't do gibberish to save my life. *sighs* _

* * *

Challenge word: Secrets

Meaning: Operating in a hidden or confidential manner.

Word Count: 502… soooo close. *pouts*

Time Frame: Adults, after Sam leaves, and just into the Pilot.

Warnings/Spoilers: Um… spoilers for the Pilot. Do we REALLY need to warn for that now?

* * *

He doesn't think of the enigma he'll present to Jess, when the doctor asks if there's any family he wants them to contact, and he shakes his head no, doesn't bother trying to verbalize it, not when his lungs are greedy for the oxygen they're struggling to pull in. Jess stays close, keeps one hand on him at all times, and he thinks distantly that it should be Dean standing there, that Dean would know just how to calm him down, but no. Dean is miles and states away, and Sam is here, alone and scared and praying that this attack will pass like others.

The confusion and pity that crosses her face sends warnings up in his mind, and he wonders if the two would ever meet. Or if he'd just be better off letting his past die, like so many embers.

* * *

They're moving into the new apartment, hauling up armloads of books as they joke and jib, Sam pretending hurt when Jess bumps his shoulder mirthfully. He returns the favor, forgets for a moment, lost in the teasing and the ribbing, that she isn't Dean, isn't used to the strength, and he forgets to check himself. She's not hurt, just stumbles, a book sliding free, and she teases him good-naturedly. Until her eyes land on the picture, all three of the Winchester men sitting on the Impala, the car gleaming even through years in the photograph, and he can see the moment she recognizes the child as him. And the family resemblance in the other two.

The good mood died, left an aching of sorrow and abandonment in his heart, and he knew he wouldn't be able to avoid the questions this time.

* * *

"Sam, I mean, please. Just…stop for a second. You sure you're okay?" Sam knows he can't meet her eyes…he's not okay, not even in the same ZIP code as okay, but Jess has the maternal instincts of a grizzly, and as much as he loves her, loves her dearly, if she thinks he's upset, then she won't hesitate to haul Dean out on his ass, by any means necessary. And she knows him well enough to catch the lie, if he meets her gaze.

"I'm fine." The glib words fall tastelessly from his lips. She's not appeased though, pressing harder.

"It's just…" she trails off for a second, and he can see the accusations she wants to say. 'They left you alone.' 'You wouldn't me call them when we thought you were dying.' 'I can't ask about them, without upsetting you.' "You won't even talk about your family, and now you're taking off in the middle of the night to spend a weekend with them? And with Monday coming up, which is sorta a big deal."

She's worried, and he knows there's nothing that he can say to soothe her, not with Dean standing just yards away. So he kisses her, pretends to not hear her questions after, and resolves to settle it when he gets back. 


	28. Chapter 28: Coffee

_Challenge word: Coffee_

_Meaning:__ a dark-brown, aromatic drink made by brewing in water the roasted and ground beanlike seeds of a tall tropical shrub (genus ____Coffea__) of the madder family_

_Word Count: 506… close. _

_Time Frame: Adult. Pick a season. _

_Warnings/Spoilers: Um… not that I know of!_

* * *

I've been at this diner for a long, long time now. My momma used to work here; I remember sitting in the booths after school, doin homework while she waited on the customers. Done raised my own brood, and I'm still here, wiping down tables and jotting orders. Been at it long enough that I have a pretty good sense of the types that come in.

See, we don't often get many of the city-slickers, but here and again you do. The kind that tally up _exactly_ ten percent, no more, no less, and think it's a novel experience eating in a diner. Mostly we get the truckers. Good folk mostly, hard pressed from obeying the road's call, but kinder than most people you meet nowadays.

The black, sleek, growling tank of a car that pulled in had me first pegging them as city-folk. Most of them older cars that are in that kind of condition belong to the richer class. But the two boys that shuffled in, shoulders hunched against the blowing snow, they had the rougher look of my road class. The ones that can't help but follow the siren song of the asphalt. Not real sure if they were brothers or lovers, don't bother me a lick either way, but they were close. The taller one, though he looked a bit younger, was pressed tight against the other, wide shoulders and narrow eyes that got most folk lookin back to their plates.

They've been in diners before, it was easy to see by the way he herded the shorter man into the booth, settled in with his back to the door as he kicked out those long legs. The older one just stayed hunched over, arms tight around his belly. Musta been sick, lookin that pale. I grabbed the coffee; those that travel the road usually go straight for it. They weren't much different; the younger one dumped in plenty of sugar and cream into his, and that older one just wrapped scuffed and scarred hands around the ceramic, shoulders slumping. It's damned cold out there today; they're callin for another 4 inches today.

I gave them menus, let them browse as I wiped down the counter, keepin a keen eye on 'em. Sure enough, the shorter one kept coughing, hunching over more with each one. It wasn't long before he slunk off towards the men's room, and that younger one pulled out some silver flask from his coat, dumped in a healthy splash of amber liquid into the other's coffee before capping it and hiding it again.

Irish coffee. Cures most of what ails ya. And with the dose he just hefted in… if it doesn't cure ya, it'll prolly kill ya. It was a few more minutes before the older one came back, rubbing a shaking hand over a scruffy face, worn and tired. One taste of that coffee, and those boots swung hard into the taller one's shins, narrowed gaze fighting with a smile as the younger one just smirked.


	29. Chapter 29: Pride

_Challenge word: Pride_

_Meaning:__ Proper respect for oneself, with a high sense of one's own dignity. _

_Word Count: 496 _

_Time Frame: Adult. Pick a season. _

_Warnings/Spoilers: Um… not that I know of!_

* * *

"Would it kill you to just admit you're sick?"

"'m not sick." Granted, it wasn't really convincing, Dean knew this, considering he was dragging his sleeve under his nose and snuffling hard, but hey. A man had pride, ya know? It was the principle of the thing. "Just allergies."

Sam just snorted, shaking his head as he turned away, and Dean took the chance to crank the heating unit up some more. It was damned cold in the room, that's all. For chrissake, there's snow swirling all around out there. A man's entitled to a little warmth.

"Whatever. Look, I'm gonna go find some food, then we can load up the Impala and blow this place, okay? Think you can keep from sneezing and snotting to death in that short of a time?" He had already shrugged into a coat and was stomping his feet into his boots. Dean barely repressed the urge to shake his head and gather up the missing bits of time he was losing.

"Yeah, I'll be fine. Get some coffee while you're out. And not that sissy shit!" he hollered as Sam slammed the door, rattling the windows. He huffed, rolling his eyes again at his brother's flair for drama, and eyed the room.

Jesus, there was more shit to gather than he wanted there to be. He sighed, scrubbed a hair through his hair (which was getting longer than he liked, way time to get it cut again), and plopped inelegantly on the couch, reaching to grab his boots.

So what if that took a lot of energy? A man was entitled to rest his eyes for a few minutes. It had been a long day already. He muttered another excuse as he shifted, and realized foggily that he was laying down now. He'd take a quick power nap, then get everything packed up. Sammy wouldn't even notice that he'd dozed.

Just a quick nap.

* * *

Sam couldn't exactly say he was surprised when he opened the door, and saw all of their stuff still about the room. It wasn't –exactly- strewn… they had been raised neater than that, but it was definitely not packed. He _–was-_ surprised that Dean didn't appear by the time the door latched shut. He set the bags on the table, and the precious coffee… and Dean would have no idea how tempted Sam had been to spike it with some seriously girly syrups.

Dean was sound asleep on the tiny couch, curled up, knees and forehead pressed against the back as he shivered randomly, looking miserable.

'I knew it, you jerk. Up all night coughing, but you're not sick.' Sam didn't say a word though, just tugged a blanket free from the closet, and draped it carefully over his brother, and went to extend their stay.

A man had to have his pride, after all. He'd tease the hell outta Dean for it much later, when his brother was back up to speed.

Maybe.


	30. Chapter 30: Lazy

_Challenge word: Lazy_

_Meaning:__ Averse or disinclined to work, or a situation that encourages a sense of sluggishness. _

_Word Count: 500 on the first shot, no rewrites. *smug* _

_Time Frame: Adult, after series, I suppose AU, since I doubt this will ever happen. _

_Warnings/Spoilers: Established Wincest relationship, but nothing explicit. No kissing even. _

* * *

WINCEST WARNING WINCEST WARNING WINCEST WARNING

* * *

Dean slowly became aware of two breaths feathering across his skin; one was Sammy, pressed tight to his side, breathing deep and steady across his brother's chest as he slept. The other was quick and rapid pants against his hand, which was hanging off the edge of the mattress. He yawned, stretching a little as he craned his head, and watched the small puppy that whimpered and wiggled closer.

He had to go out. Damnit. He closed his eyes, letting his head thump soundlessly back onto the pillow, and barely suppressed a groan. He was warm (Sam was a freaking furnace of heat), comfortable (so glad Sam talked him into that memory foam mattress) and a little boneless still (again, Sam's fault. He's starting to see a trend here…). From the window on Sam's side of the bed, he could see the thick fluffy snowflakes trailing down in the early dawn light.

That meant it was cold. Damnit. Icarus whined again, stretching up to nudge his hand, and he sighed. He couldn't make him wait, it was too mean.

He felt Sam rumble a chuckle against his chest, nuzzling his chest as he stretched. "Mornin." The word was slurred, still sleep-husky, and Dean couldn't help but grin at the sheer adorableness Sam still presented. It didn't matter how old he got, he'd still look like a sleepy little toddler when he first woke up.

"Good morning. Gotta let the pup out." Sam muttered something that could be affirmative, derision, or a comment about the Impala, it was hard to tell. He slipped out of the warm cocoon, not surprised as Icarus started spinning in gleeful, anxious circles, and Sam just curled up in the warm space with a soft sigh. "Hang on boy. Gotta get dressed."

It really wasn't fair that it was winter. He couldn't get away with leaning in the doorway in just boxers. Too damned cold for that. No, he had to layer on the jeans and the socks and the shirts, and find his coat, and by then, the little bit of sleepiness that was still clinging determinedly got blasted away the moment he opened the door.

Icarus was an odd one; he wouldn't do anything unless you stood on the porch and made sure the evil somethingorother wasn't going to snatch him away. So Dean shuffled from foot to foot while the puppy found the BEST spot, and tried really hard to not think about warm beds and snuggling siblings and days off while being snowed in.

It was hard.

And he couldn't really say he was surprised to go back in ten minutes later, to find the coffee already brewed, and a mug being pushed into his hands before his boots were off. Sam was good at reading his mind like that, and as he settled in on the couch, Sam's warm weight against his legs under the heavy quilt, he couldn't help but think it was gonna be a pretty damned good day.


	31. Chapter 31: Misfortune

_Challenge word: Misfortune_

_Meaning: Bad or ill luck; an undesirable event or circumstance. _

_Word Count: 500 on the first shot, no rewrites. *smug*That's 2 in a row. Oh yeah.  
_

_Time Frame: Adult, Season 2, right after Born Under A Bad Sign _

_Warnings/Spoilers: Spoilers possibly for Born Under A Bad Sign, bad language.

* * *

_

Dean rotated the small piece of metal, listening with a half an ear as Bobby answered Sammy. "Charms. They'll fend off possession. That demon is still out there. This'll stop it from getting back up in you."

Dean tipped his head, making a note to find his length of leather in the back of the Impala. "That sounds vaguely dirty, but thanks." He'd string it up on a chunk of the leather, hang it with Sam's Amulet. Sam wasn't one for necklaces, but the damned kid would sure as hell wear this one. Yes sir.

* * *

Turns out, wearing two necklaces at the same time, tends to wind up with them twisting together. After spending five minutes untangling the mess of metal and leather for the seemingly-hundredth time, he gave up on wearing two separate necklaces. After his shower, he carefully unworked the knot holding Sam's Amulet on, and threaded the anti-possession charm on. Reknotted the leather, slid it on, and contemplated the odd sensation of being a dog as the two metal pieces tinkled together merrily.

* * *

Turns out, Sam's Amulet didn't like having a hitchhiker. At least, not hitchhikers that weren't Sammy's fingers. After finding the charm separate from his necklace for the seventh straight morning in a row, he settled on stringing it on a much smaller piece of leather, and knotted it around his ankle, so the charm rested in the small hollow just behind the bone of his ankle. Girly, yes… but he could pull his sock over it, and it's not like anyone would notice. And he wouldn't have to worry about Meg coming back to literally bite him in the ass. Problem solved.

* * *

"Son of a bitch!" He stomped across the room, picking up the small piece of metal. The damned thing was becoming a serious, serious pain in the ass. He'd lost count of the number of times that he'd snapped the leather by accident removing his socks, and that was after cutting it (he didn't really stop to think that the leather would shrink once it got wet… and having it cut into his skin really wasn't all that pleasurable), and switching ankles after it rubbed a blister, caught between his boot and his skin. He glared at the little charm, eyes narrowed. There had to be a way. Sam's charm wasn't giving him trouble.

He finally secured it on the laces of his boot. That would hold it.

* * *

After digging through rotten leaves, he held up the little charm from where it fell when the wendigo clawed at him. "Dude, seriously?" Sam just shook his head, stomping back to the car.

Dean glared at the evil charm, eyes narrowed. "It's war, now."

* * *

Dean hissed as he tugged off the surgical tape holding the gauze against his chest, peering at the new ink glistening on his skin. Sam snorted, shaking his head as he made his way to the bathroom, and Dean just grinned. "Can't lose it now!"


	32. Chapter 32: Apology

_Challenge word: Apology_

_Meaning: __to express regret or sorrow for having insulted or failed another. _

_Word Count: 500. *boogie* _

_Time Frame: Adult. _

_Warnings/Spoilers: We are spoilering the Holy Hades outta Season 6, and 6.11 especially. _

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He'd apologized, to Castiel, to Dean, to Bobby… begged again and again for forgiveness for the things his body had done while he wasn't fully at home. And the reactions had ranged, from Bobby still being wary of him, stand-offish in a way he never had been before, not even after he'd died and come back, to Dean's constant and insistent refusal to accept that Sam had done anything to warrant forgiveness.

"Wasn't you, Sam." He repeated again and again, in every variation under the sun, until Sam just stopped trying. Gave up and gave in, like he'd done so many other times.

He still had one last apology to make, and he waited until Dean had slid into sleep, Jim and Jack easing the way. He wasn't drinking nearly as much as the last few days of hell on earth, but the liquor was still a lullaby of sorts. He feigned sleep until Dean's breaths had steadied out and deepened, and then counted down from a thousand to ensure it before he slipped out of the warm sheets and stuffed his feet into the shoes peeking out from under the bed. He paused as he eased open the door, eyes intent on Dean, making sure his brother wasn't going to wake up, and eased out the door to make the one apology he was dreading.

After all, it wasn't like they were going to forgive him. But he still needed to clear the air, offer up an olive branch of sorts to try to appease the guilt gnawing on him. He sank into the dusty dirt, tucking his feet under his knees as he kept his gaze anywhere but on her. God, Dean would bust a gut laughing if he ever knew about this.

"You always were happiest with him. It's why I refused the keys." He sighed, tipping his head back to watch the few stars that made their way through the pollution of the city. "You always loved him more, and it wouldn't have been fair to take you away from him. Even if he wasn't hunting anymore. Even missing my soul, I knew that." The black paint gleamed coldly, and maybe it was the sheer lack of sleep that was making him trippy, but he got the feeling there was a lack of forgiveness. He edged closer, rested his forehead on the elegant sweep of metal just over her wheel well. "You know, Samuel talked me into the Charger. They sell more, so it was more inconspicuous. I wanted the Impala." He shrugged, tipping his head to rest his cheek on the cool metal. "Keep at least a little piece of you close by. But I couldn't take you away from Dean. It wouldn't be right to any of us, you know?" The air changed, just a little, and he crept into the back seat, curling up small and burying his nose in the leather, sighing quietly. "I'm sorry," he murmured as he slid into sleep.


	33. Chapter 33: Cold

_Challenge word: Cold (Actually, it was prompted by Christina Perri's song "Jar Of Hearts", in which one line is: You're gonna catch a cold, from the ice inside your soul. It seemed to fit entirely too well with our Robo-Sam. *gryns*)_

_Meaning: *takes a deep breath* 1-Having little or no warmth. 2- Lacking in emotion or reaction. 3- an infection, either bacterial or viral, that targets the respiratory system. _

_Word Count: 500. Because, you know, I'm awesome that way. *gryns cheesily* _

_Time Frame: Adult. Again. _

_Warnings/Spoilers: Spoiling the Holy Hades out of all of Season 6, a buttload of 6.11, and now an AU I suppose, since Sera didn't see it fit to give us something like this. Ahh, the joys of fanfiction. _

/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\

Sam screams for almost an hour, after Death puts back what Lucifer stole. The howls of anguish stop only when he starts convulsing, and Dean is about to climb the walls, so sick of all of this. They've paid their dues, and they've stopped the fucking apocalypse; is it too much to ask for his younger brother back in one whole piece?

But Death is watching the spasms without concern, head tilted slightly in a manner eerily reminiscent of Castiel, and holds up a wrinkled hand every time Dean steps closer. "Leave it alone Dean. It's only expected that his body would attempt to reject it."

Like his soul is some sort of transplant.

The seizures stop after another half hour, fading into quiet whimpers, tremors and shakes. Death smiles grimly at Dean, tips his head, and disappears. Dean's half afraid to touch him, worried about bringing back the screams and delusions he always had when detoxing. It's his baby brother, the same Sammy he's always known, and he can't resist the urge to make sure he's okay. Probably won't ever be able to resist that urge. He sets a hand on the thickly muscled shoulder, feeling the quivers underneath the flesh as he hears the broken keening noise. "God, Sammy." He's got his eyes scrunched shut and face buried as best he can, and it's only then that Dean realizes he's still restrained, still stretched out like some bizarre offering.

The buckles come undone easily despite unsteady fingers, and Sam curls up instantly on the cot, breath hitching. He fights any attempts to get him vertical, and Dean gives up, lets him have the battle. He isn't surprised when Sam almost instantly passes out, still making pitiful noises and jerking as the dreams follow him into the sleep he's been missing out on for over a year.

When Dean checks on him after dusk, he's not surprised in the least to feel the heat radiating off him, eyes glassy and confused when he's roused enough to open them. The hazel orbs are warmer than they have been, soft in a way that screams 'Sammy', and Dean relaxes a bit at the confirmation that his brother is back; Robo-Sam and his cold, hard gaze are gone. It's just his brother, sick, broken and feverish, and that's something Dean has more than enough experience in handling.

It's a week of solid sleep, a steady diet of Tylenol and Pedialyte. There's a broth Bobby's kept simmering on the burner, topping it off with water every few hours to keep it from getting too strong, before Sam's even approaching coherent. The fever makes him alternate between clinging and combative, the moods swinging as much as the fever does. But it slowly steadies out as the thermometer drops, until it's just a tired and cranky Sam; one who follows Dean too easily upstairs, twisting fingers in the hem of his brother's shirt, and sleeps on the couch, pressed close, like always.

His brother's back.


	34. Chapter 34: Heart

_Challenge word: Heart_

_Word Count: 505. For a robot, he chatters a lot. :/_

_Time Frame: Adult. _

_Warnings/Spoilers: Oh, jeez. Okay, I have a Robo-Sam fetish, okay? There, I said it! *crosses her arms and huffs* Everyone pleased now? So yeah, this spoils everything prior to 6.12. *mutters and stomps off* _

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He didn't need to sleep anymore, but Dean still did, so he was very careful to make sure the latch didn't make a single click as it shut after him, eyes adjusting almost instantly in the fragile haze of dawn. At first, it was difficult finding something to do while the rest of the world slept, but he had quickly found that he could exercise, push his body to and past its limits, and all of it next to silently. And the dirt road that trailed past the motel also ran along a horse paddock, though, in the heart of Kentucky, it was more difficult to find a road that –didn't-. But this one had a small filly that seemed to find it fun to race against him, and he didn't hesitate, clicking softly in the misty morning as the equine came darting out of the haze.

The road ran next to the fencing for almost a quarter mile, and he waited until she pranced around to face the same direction before pushing off, reveling in the steady thrum of muscles and the zone he could blank out to.

He never saw the rut in the road, until he face-planted.

He snarled, glaring at the rut in the road malevolently as he picked himself up. He dusted his hands on his now ruined jeans, taking in the thick mud clinging to the denim. The rough material made him abruptly realize the fire burning through his palms, and he carefully studied the rent flesh.

Nothing damaging, just several layers ripped off, now caked in mud. A good scrubbing, and it should be fine. He huffed out a breath, the run now as ruined as his jeans. The filly whickered from the fence, ears back a bit, and he dismissed her with a wave, seeing the mare he assumed was her mom come trotting closer.

Animals weren't too fond of him since he came back.

The rain was just breaking over the parking lot as he let himself in, stopping abruptly as he met Dean's gaze. The same gaze that dropped to take in the blood and the mud, and Dean's brow furrowed as he strode forward. "Jeez, Sam, what the hell? Let me see."

He brushed past his brother, tossing a casual, "It's nothing, just fell," over his shoulder, and caught the brief flash of pain and rejection in the green eyes. He paused, seeing his own blank gaze in the mirror, and the memory of years past flickered weakly and dimly in the back of his mind. He remembered the cold of the toilet soothing his hands as he braced himself, the burn of the peroxide bubbling up and over the gashes on his knees, and the teasing of a much younger Dean.

He braced his hands on the edge of the sink, thinking back carefully. Checked his wry grin in the glass, and offered. "Hey, Dean? I think I may need a little help after all."

It's what Sammy would have done, after all.


	35. Chapter 35: Hesitate

_Challenge word: Hesitate_

_Meaning: __a __dream or circumstance that can cause a strong negative emotional response from the sleeper, typically fear and/or horror._

_Word Count: 500. Because, you know, I totally cut a few words to make it fit. ^_^ _

_Time Frame: Adult_

_Warnings/Spoilers: *raises a brow* Ya'll forgotten about the last post? Season 6, all of it prior to 6.11 for safety's sake. If you saw Cas soul-grope Sam, you're good to go here. _

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The man behind Dean, easing the needle through tanned skin, is not his brother. Not Sam. Oh, he wears Sam's face, acts the right way. And they've been over it, yes. It _is_ Sam, just… missing his soul.

It's one thing to know it intellectually. It's a whole 'nother ballgame to have to watch him in the mirror, sewing rent flesh back together, to have the visual confirmation of who it is, because your body doesn't recognize him anymore. It's scary as fuck.

Every time Sam has ever patched you up, there's been hesitancy in his touch. Not a lack of confidence; the kid has that in spades. Knows his medical field training as well as you do, has done enough procedures to be better than some nurses you've stumbled across. Just a general hesitation, one you can feel each time. Even as his hands are steady and sure, his breath is calm and collected, you can feel the flutter of reluctance in him.

It's always been there, from the first time you came home with a scratch across your hand from your first hunt. Dad was pissed you'd gotten hurt, but it wasn't bad. Barely memorable, considering some of the truly impressive wounds you've gathered over your life. You remember Sammy's eyes going wide as his chubby little fingers hovered over the dried blood, the little dry pieces of skin sticking up. Hazel eyes had been full of alarm, fear and worry, and he'd dashed off to the bathroom, stumbling back quickly with something in his hands.

The light flutter of your kid brother's hesitative fingers had deftly placed Scooby-Doo bandages on your scratch with a gentle kiss to the plastic that wouldn't have harmed a butterfly. You had laughed, ruffling his hair as you told him it felt better. Even that first time there had been a hint of question in his touch, you'd just assumed it was his way.

Until he had patched up Dad that first time - pressing gauze and tape to the large abrasion, holding them firm without the hesitation that always showed up whenever he helped put you back together.

You finally gave up, asking him days later as you turned down Def Leppard just a touch, and watching from the corner of your eye as he shrugged, hazel gaze still out the Impala's window. _I just… don't want to hurt you. 'S all. _

There's no hesitation in Sam now. Fingers strong, sure and firm, gentling only a little when you hiss as the sutures bite a little too deep. So you watch the mirror, reminding yourself it's Sam, not a random, faceless nurse, physician or EMT patching you together. It's your brother, and you force your shoulders to relax, to stay still, keep from flinching.

His eyes never leave the injury, and you can't stop the promise that wells up, silent and sure as he is. _I'll fix this Sammy. I'll put you back together. Don't you worry. I'll fix it. Somehow._


End file.
